


bruised like a cherry, ripe as a peach

by nagatha_christie



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Image, Body Positivity, Desire, Established Relationship, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Related, Internalized Misogyny, Intimacy, London, Romance, Sensuality, Slice of Life, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Harry, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagatha_christie/pseuds/nagatha_christie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry cries sometimes, when she comes. But she's not sad anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bruised like a cherry, ripe as a peach

**Author's Note:**

> it all started with a singular vision: a soft purple duvet in a small bedroom in a top-floor flat, the golden light from the streetlamp streaming out onto the bed. it snowballed into what i call the camden 'verse, based on the canon of nick's experiences from [when he first moved to london](http://roisinthorn.tumblr.com/post/48954170757/full-text-can-nick-grimshaw-save-radio-1) in 2007-2008.
> 
>  _bruised like a cherry_ hits particularly close to home; i’ve been working on it and sitting with it for almost two years. this fic has run parallel to my years of exploring gender identity and sexual identity, and has changed as such, until it grew into what it is now. i am trans myself, and the partner of a gender-diverse person; i drew from many of my own experiences when writing, so i would be able to portray my characters with tenderness and sensitivity. i spoke to many gender-diverse people, and did extensive reading on the subject in the hopes that i would be able to portray harry in a realistic light. every person experiences gender-variance differently. every person is unique, with different baggage, different insecurities, different strengths. each person has a unique story to tell. this one happens to be harry’s. 
> 
> the style and content of _bruised_ was inspired by the absolutely gorgeous [arch your back, point your toes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1160420). the title is from 15 by rilo kiley. i’d like to thank shen, zee, brady, caitlin, kenzie, julija, julie, molly, alysen, and ash… i would be nowhere without your kindness, patience, support, and brilliant minds. super special thanks to liz for being my sensitivity beta, and julie for looking over this on such short notice. thank you to every person who’s reminded me how important a fic like this can be. 
> 
> i believe it’s imperative to fall in love with your characters, and i came to absolutely adore mine. it was a pleasure to inhabit this ‘verse, and a privilege to walk along with them. i hope this fic can bring up feelings you thought you’d forgotten, and i hope this reaches the people who need it. no matter who you are, i hope you see yourself in this. <3

The street is calm, bathed in the glow of a glimmering full moon. Harry walks with her coat thrown open, the warm breeze soft against her body, skin unsheltered by her gentle silk blouse. Her long strides match Nick’s, and beside her, Pixie shuffles a bit to keep pace. They’re all holding hands, passing dark storefronts and grubby brick buildings in a companionable silence. Harry's in the middle, arms swinging as she walks. She feels slight and silly, holding back the urge to skip ahead and spin around like a child.

At last, they stop, standing in front of a building gritty as all the rest, but somehow different; Harry’s grin grows bigger when she realises it’s her flat. _Their_ flat. The move feels so fresh, it sometimes takes her a second to remember which one it is, and another second to remember that it’s real.

The flat Harry shares with Nick is nestled above a pub that isn’t trendy or edgy, but constant, like a ship on choppy seas. It’s been there for ages and ages, and Harry’s almost certain it’s going to be there forever.

They’ve only stopped a moment when someone stumbles out of the pub and nearly knocks Pixie over. The bloke shouts something over his shoulder as he walks away, shoes scuffing the pavement.

“Dickhead,” Pixie mutters.

“Home sweet home,” Harry says, laughing.

“Guess you could say that, yeah,” Nick says, leaning his temple against hers. “D’you want to come up?” he asks, letting go of Pixie’s hand.

“Nah, don't think so,” Pixie says. “Bed’s not quite big enough for three.”

“We’ve done it be _fore_ ,” Harry says, pouting.

“Yeah, and I fell off in the middle of the night because of _someone’s_ kicky feet.” Pixie says, tapping Harry on the nose. She grins.

“Not mine _,_ ” Nick says, nudging Harry in the side.

“Oh, alright,” Harry says, reluctant. She’ll find a way to convince Pixie the next time.

“You’ll be ‘round Thursday for brunch, though, won’t you?” Pixie asks. “Daisy’s got big plans for this one. Says it’ll be major.”

“Should be,” Nick says. “Right, Harry?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Harry says, holding Nick’s hand a bit tighter.

“Brilliant,” Pixie says. She leans up to wrap her arms around their necks one by one, and Harry lets go of Nick’s hand so she can hug Pixie tight. The way Pixie’s so slight and up on tiptoe is darling; Harry’s envious for a moment. _She_ wants to be delicate.

“See you then,” Harry says, waving as Pixie walks toward the kerb. She extends her arm to hail a cab, and blows kisses at them, laughing.

“Love you, be safe," Nick calls.

“Love you too, babes,” Pixie calls back.

They watch her get into the cab and pull away, leaning on each other. Harry puts her arm around Nick’s middle and they watch the cars hum past. It's soothing, the tires on the pavement. They’ve got nowhere they need to be.

Sometimes Harry likes to make up stories in her head about the drivers going by, like _that one's an undercover detective, but he's terrible at hiding it and that's why he hasn't fixed the bullet hole on his passenger door._ She likes to share her thoughts with Nick, offering them up for Nick to enjoy or add to. But tonight, she wants to keep her thoughts in her head. It's enough to have Nick there for her to lean on, an arm round her shoulder and a steady heat at her side.

After a moment, Harry realises she’s shaky on her feet and holding onto Nick for support. Her eyes are blurring and her body feels heavy with weariness. She cherishes it, though, knowing its presence means she was out _doing_ things, crossing off items on her list and living the day to its fullest.

"Shall we go up, Lady Styles?" Nick turns to look at her. His voice sounds different, shifting higher and into the more formal Queen’s English. It’s a silly joke – they’re lightyears away from high-class living – but the joke is theirs and theirs alone.

"Why, Sir Grimshaw, I think we shall," Harry says, playing along. The words are slow from her sleepy mouth, and her accent isn’t at its prime, but it’s passable. She stands up straighter, a bit more alert. High-society women never slouch.

"Around the side entrance, do you think?" Nick asks.

"Oh, yes," Harry says, tilting up her chin. "Yes, I do say."

"Come along, then." Nick puts his hand on the small of her back and turns them around. Harry's still reeling with fuzzy warm pleasure at being called Lady.

As they walk toward the side of the building, Harry takes delicate steps, as if she’s walking in steep stilettos instead of three-inch heels. She reckons that high-society women don’t wear stilettos, except for the pointy ones that make them look like they don’t have any toes.

“Surely I can't fault you for wanting to keep away from the pub,” Nick says, starting up the stairs.

"And why’s that?” Harry asks. She’s biting her lip against a smile. The thought of seeing the group of regulars in the pub does feel overwhelming to her, especially after being out with all their mates; Nick knows that. She loves how well he knows her.

Harry lifts her long coat as she follows Nick up, as though she’s got on a gown with a full skirt. With the fabric of her coat gathered in both hands, she can’t hold onto the railing, so she finds herself falling several steps behind him. Her heels won’t allow her to go any quicker. She takes a breath and just accepts her pace; elegance is more important than haste.

“More discreet this way," Nick says. "Only peasants and commonfolk use the front entrance. They fancy mingling with the locals. But not us. We don't."

"Sometimes, though," Harry says. "Sometimes we do. When the Lady feels up to it."

"The Lady must be in the _mood_ ," Nick says, drawing the word out so it's four syllables, not one.

“She must,” Harry says, agreeing.

“Remember to watch your step, darling,” Nick says, rolling his r’s more than usual. “I know how you feel about stairs. Usually your footmen are there to carry you, but it seems tonight they’re nowhere to be found.”

“Gave them a week’s rest,” Harry says. “I thought they deserved it. They do work so hard.”

“How charitable of you,” Nick says. He looks back at her with a big grin. Such a shameless display probably wouldn’t befit an aristocrat, but he’s so charming, Harry thinks it would be uncouth to mention. “Really, Lady Styles, I’m well impressed. You’re a downright humanitarian.”

“Oh, stop,” Harry says, barely audible through a laugh that shakes her shoulders. One of her shoes gets caught on the slats of the stairs and she loses her balance. She grabs Nick to support her and almost brings them both down.

"Careful there, Hazza," Nick says, dropping the character like a well-worn cloak. He kneels down to help her.

"It's okay, I'm alright," Harry says. Though nothing hurts, she’d fallen hard enough to rip her tights and get her hands all dusty. She stands up, taking hold of the railing this time. With Nick alongside her, she starts back up.

"I think we weaned you off kitten heels a bit too early, love. D'you reckon?"

"Maybe," Harry says. "But I trip all the time, even when I'm not wearing shoes."

"You do," Nick says, fond. "One of your finer qualities."

Harry bumps him with her hip and wrinkles her nose at his teasing.

"You should know better than anyone, Grim. You're the one who has to kiss it better."

" _Such_ a hardship." Nick says, sighing as he takes the last step up.

"Clumsiness is just – It’s part of my mystique. That's what Kate told me."

Nick looks at her for a second, suppressing a grin. But he can’t hold it in for long, and bursts out laughing. Harry laughs with him.

"Is that what she said?" Nick’s gasping, doubled over. The key’s still in the door. He can’t unlock it in his condition. "Your mystique, innit?"

“S'Kate ever wrong?" Harry asks.

“No, but you sure you didn't hear her funny?" Nick asks, tilting his head.

“You _wish_ you had my mystique,” Harry says.

“Oh, no doubt,” Nick says, nodding. He’s still got a shit-eating grin on his face as he gets the door unlocked and flicks on the overhead light.

Harry steps into the kitchen. Without the splendor of the night wrapped around her, she realises how much her feet are hurting. There’s friction against her ankles, and she wants her shoes off immediately. She holds onto the counter as she undoes one zip, then the other, and steps out of them. She sighs in relief; the floor feels cold and soothing.

“Better?” Nick asks, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Much better,” Harry says. The irritation from the heels is a small sacrifice to make, if she can wear what she wants and look the way she feels. Harry doesn’t believe that beauty should be pain, but she’s willing to take a few risks, like heels. Heels and poky mascara wands. There’s a rightness about it makes her feel even more feminine, since she knows that her friends have their own sacrifices as well.

“Give me your coat, love,” Nick says, holding out his hand. “I’ll hang it up for you.” She hands it off to him. Their coat closet is just big enough for two umbrellas and a pair of wellies, but she likes that Nick asks for her coat anyway. He always finds a way.

“Thanks,” Harry says. Feeling lighter, she walks toward the curtain that divides the rooms. It’s an opaque purple curtain with applique stars that shimmer iridescent in the right light. She’d brought it with her when she’d first moved to London, a keepsake from home.

The hardwood floor creaks under Harry's quiet feet, and she can hear wisps of fuzzy chatter from the pub downstairs. She steps around the bed to the window, stretching over the radiator to open the curtain. Burnished light from the streetlamp gathers on the bed like a pool of liquid gold. She clicks on a lamp, one that’s nestled between the dresser and the wall. The room has a nice glow, but it’s still missing the candles and all the rest. She likes a bit of a ritual on nights like these, to bring her down from the stimulation of so many lights and sounds. She’s learned to find comfort in routine.

The dresser is cluttered with perfume bottles and candles in glass votives. Harry chooses two of her favourite candles: Cosy Sweater and Farmer’s Market. She’d chosen both for the names, but the scents turned out to be just as perfect, rich with warmth and spices. Lighting them at the same time makes her feel like someone’s wrapped up all the best bits of autumn and given them to her as a gift.

After Harry’s lit the candles, she kneels on the floor to where the record player is, and drops the needle down. The LP she wants is already on the turntable. She’d picked it up at a flea market, where a woman there had assured her it was _tres’_ sexy. After playing it all the way through – fourteen tracks of a French woman crooning and giggling – Harry agreed. The album hadn’t been labeled, so Harry likes to call it _Fuck in France_ when she's feeling cheeky. One time, Nick had claimed the musician's name was Charlotte Gainsbourg, but Harry’d never heard of her. She's remained convinced he made it up just because he likes to be right.

 _L’amour_ is the first song, filling up the space with silky sound. Sometimes Harry pretends she lives in a posh French flat with sheer curtains that sway in the breeze. Flower petals at the foot of the bed, the whole place surrounded with lavender sprigs and cherry blossoms. Bottomless goblets of raspberry wine and soft champagne, just because. She can feel the cool marble beneath her bare feet, see the startling view from her balcony.

Harry breathes in deep, enjoying anew the seasonal scents in front of her, and brings herself out of the fantasy. While she does dream of Paris, she loves the small glories of their Camden studio. Creaky floors and sticky doorknobs, smudgy mirrors and faded porcelain – she loves it all because it’s theirs. The flat is special to her, a flawed place made whole by her affection.

Harry fumbles around for the bottle of saline solution she needs. Her new earrings are little droplets of Amethyst, and she wrinkles her nose as she takes them out to clean them. She still hasn’t gotten the hang of not tugging too hard. The studs are tiny in her hand, nearly overlooked among the creases in her palm, but they mean so much. More than even she knows. She glances in the small round mirror above the dresser and adjusts her necklace. Resting beneath her collarbones, it says her name in gold cursive. She decides to keep it on.

Harry runs her hand over the ruffles of her blouse. She realises she should take it off so it doesn't wrinkle. It’s silky and sheer, with pearlescent buttons, the kind of material that makes Harry realise she’s never before owned a piece of clothing so fine. She’d been quite careful with it all night, in the way she’d developed recently. Having clothes that make her feel amazing makes her want to be careful. She’s not trapped in what she wears, she’s liberated, so it’s important that she minds the things she has.

Harry undoes the buttons and shrugs the blouse off her shoulders. She slips it onto a wooden hanger and slides two of the buttons closed so it won’t fall. Goosebumps rise on her bared arms. She rubs them to create friction. Her nipples perk up at the cold and she slips her hand in her bra to settle them. Even the slightest chill is enough for them to rise at full attention lately.

Out of habit, Harry tries to avoid looking at her chest, but tonight she’s feeling brave, and she’s surprised at the pleasure she feels when she looks down. The lace of her bra stretches over her chest, the material soft against her budding breasts. While she loves the way her tits look in a tight t-shirt, silky blouses give her more room to breathe. She feels the most ‘her’ in padded bras and loose-fitting blouses, their soft cups and flowy linens moulding her into the person she sees and feels, becoming her best self.

Harry’s breasts have begun to show more and more, little by little, bee stings she half-believes she’s nourished to baby bloom by sheer will alone. Though she doesn’t need a bra for support, she wears one anyway; she likes the reminder. But her breasts are their own reminder sometimes, tender to the point of pain that’s almost as strong as the pleasure she feels when she looks at them in the mirror on good days. Sometimes it gets so bad her mouth contorts in wordless pain, and all she can bear to do is rock back and forth, waiting and wishing for the aching to stop.

Yet Harry looks upon them in wonder, in fondness; she nourishes them, even when they hurt. Her body is an ever-changing garden, and she wants to take good care of it.

Harry turns around to face the bed, grateful that she’d fixed the duvet all proper this morning. The bed looks bigger than it is this way, like it could fit the two of them comfortably. In truth, the bed is better suited for one. Every night they engage in the perpetual struggle of pointy elbows and shuffling feet under the covers. If they spoon on their sides, it can be quite cosy. It’s her favourite way to sleep, and probably Nick’s, too. Even if he wangs on about how he’s surely overheating underneath the blankets because of how warm Harry’s body is.

“Nick?” she calls, and waits a few seconds for a response. She thinks there’s some shuffling, but she can’t tell if it’s from their flat or downstairs. She shrugs and climbs onto the bed. Nick would come in when he was ready.

Harry sprawls out on her back, stretching out her arms and legs like a starfish. The duvet beneath her is the best one they’ve got, deep violet and lushly soft. She sighs, content, air moving up through her body to escape through her pursed lips. One hand rests on her stomach and the other behind her head. The tousled state of her hair feels as satisfying as the ache in her calves; she likes being mussed up. She likes her femininity to be imperfect, a constant work in progress. There’s a quiet buzzing calm in her ears when she starts to drift off, her body heavy and still.

The curtain rings clatter as Nick pulls the curtain aside and behind him. Harry opens her eyes and smiles when she looks up at him, so tall his head almost brushes the ceiling. The jumper he’s wearing is impossible to miss. It’s spangly and showy, more like a Keith Haring piece than a pattern, if Harry’s being honest. But it’s one of Henry’s new designs, and he had gifted it to Nick, so Nick was determined to love it.

Harry does like the jumper, in some strange way. It fits Nick. It announces its presence, the same as he does. Or maybe it’s not the jumper she likes, but the thought behind it. She loves how far Nick is willing to go to make Henry feel happy and important.

Nick’s still stood beside the bed, grinning at her and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Harry huffs out a laugh, remembering that she’s half-undressed.

"Don't leave much to the imagination, do you?" Nick says. He’s staring.

“More fun this way,” Harry says, smiling lazy and stretching her arms above her head. She wraps her fingers around the bedframe, then lets her arms drop onto the pillow.

"It’d take a fool to complain about it, that’s for sure,” Nick says.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way, mate," Harry says. She grins.

“True,” Nick says, laughing. He doesn’t move closer, just stands there illuminated by the lamp, his eyes flicking back and forth over her. He rubs the back of his neck.

“C’mere,” Harry says, her voice dipping, tender. She reaches out her hand for him, and he takes it, swaying it back and forth. “Where’ve you been, Grim?”

“Just locking up and puttering ‘round in the bathroom. Getting my contacts out. Had to fix my hair, of course. I haven’t been able to all night.”

“Poor thing.” Harry pouts. “I could use some of that, I reckon. Freshening up.” She yawns and rubs at her eye with her hand. She frowns down at the kohl smudged on the backs of her fingers.

“Don’t be silly. You always look beautiful.” Nick leans down to kiss her forehead and Harry’s face turns hot with… well, she’s not sure, exactly. She loves a compliment, but doesn’t always know what to say.

“Did you have a good time?” Nick asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s sat half on her arm, so she shifts, plopping herself over to the other side of the bed.

“I had a wonderful time,” Harry says. “It was fun, with Pixie and Gells. And fun watching you DJ.”

“Sorry that I couldn’t hang out with you,” Nick says, bending down to take off his shoes.

“It’s okay, we had a laugh. They tried to teach me some moves.”

“I saw.” Nick laughs. “Seemed like you were spinning all night.”

“They’re like _stupid_ good at dancing. S’mad, is what it is." Nick shoves his shoes under the bed and stands up. “You should see Daise dance — have you?” Nick asks. “It’s really summat to see. Makes the whole room stare.”

“I’m not surprised. She does have a way about that.” Harry smiles, but there’s a note of lust in her voice. Not for Daisy herself, but for the fact that Daisy seems to have a way about _everything_. She carries herself tall, smiles like a queen, and brims with kind words. An unmistakable, unshakable femininity surrounds her. Her body is all luxurious curves, her dark curls lush over narrow, shapely shoulders. Wears everything like it’s tailored, even if it’s never seen a needle and thread. An easy laugh, musical and soft like a plucked harp string.

“Hey, y’alright?” Nick asks, leaning down to move a curl out of her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m alright. I’m good,” Harry says, nodding, because tonight, it’s true. For now, it’s true. Part of feeling good, Harry thinks, is accepting that the goodness will come to an end, as things do. Having that make her feel calm, not distressed. Tonight, Harry feels calm. Tonight, Harry wants Nick.

“Come lay down,” Harry says, beckoning.

Nick stretches out on the bed beside her. He’s still got on all his clothes, but he won’t for much longer, if Harry has anything to say about it. Static crackles as his warm hand skims over her stockings. Or rather, the torn mess she’d made of them on the stairs.

“You know,” Nick starts. “Kate can —”

“Shh,” Harry says, placing a wobbly finger against his mouth. Scratch of stubble beneath her palm. She knows what he’s going to say. Kate would just _love_ to buy her some new tights, some that won’t rip. She’s _good like that_ , and why won’t you just let her _help_. Harry adores their mates and lives by their advice, but she doesn’t quite know how to explain to Nick that there are some things she's got to learn herself.

"Okay,” Nick says, humouring her. He grins, eyes glinting with mischief, and bites her finger.

“Hey, stop that. I need that one for knitting. You can have all the others.”

“Promise?” The word comes out jumbled and wet.

“You can have anything you want,” Harry says, raising her eyebrows. With her other hand, she begins a sweeping gesture down the length of her body. She bursts out laughing halfway through, but it works. Nick gives her finger back.

“Thanks for that, love,” Harry mutters, wiping her hand on her skirt.

“Always welcome,” Nick says, too smug. Harry sticks out her tongue.

“Think I’ll take you up on that now, yeah?” Nick says, shifting over her so one of his arms is on her other side. He can lean down over her now, and he does, sweet-warm breath on her face. His lashes cast dancing shadows beneath his eyes; he looks tired and happy.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, setting her arms around his neck and bringing him down toward her. She tries to kiss him, but he’s a right tease, brushing his bottom lip over hers, exhaling against her eager mouth. He pulls away when she tries to deepen it, ducking away with a smirk, like he wants her to work for it.

“Kiss me proper,” she says, whinging. Harry’s not in the mood for chasing. She wants to be indulged, wants to help herself to the arching, aching curve of his neck and the quirked tilt of his lips. Harry surprises herself with how much she wants it, something deep in her belly stirring each time she’s denied. “Please, Nick.”

Mouth on greedy mouth, Nick kisses her, a proper pressing hungry kiss that urges out more. Harry lets out a soft moan and laughs gently at the relief of it; it feels good, really good tonight.

As they kiss, Harry runs her hand up and down over the back of Nick's neck and through his hair. He’d done a shoddy job cutting it the other day. Probably found a pair of silver scissors in their flat and got cocky with them. It’s shorter near the nape and longer up near the top, so Harry has something to tug on as she kisses him, pulling as if she’s going to tug him away. She knows he always tugs back towards her.

Harry sets her hand flat against Nick’s hair, feeling the contrast between the soft top bits and where it dissolves into short spikes, as short as he could get it without buzzing. Her hands slide down to the nape of his neck, sweaty palms pressing steady-hard against the place his spine stops. Their mouths carve out a rhythm, Nick pushing and Harry pushing back. Breath doesn’t come easy to Harry, catching and lingering in the hollow of her throat. She lets out little moans as their bodies push and give against each other.

Harry leans up so she can take his earlobe in her mouth. Nipping, licking, breathing hot and loud in his ear. She loves the way he shudders at that, the way he gasps. She licks over his ear and then sneaks behind it, leaving a trail of soft moans in her wake.

Nick shifts so she can get beneath his jaw, and she dips down, laving open-mouthed kisses against the stubble on the side of his face. She can feel with her wandering mouth when she’s reached the place where the roughness ebbs away and the skin turns tender again. Nick hums as she explores the long line of his graceful neck, kissing the places that are her favourites. She has a lot of favourites, though, and it takes quite some time to reach all of them. But Nick’s a patient one, encouraging her with low, shaky moans, his hand cradling the back of her head.

When Harry lays back and turns to Nick, Nick's eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth melting into an easy smile. “Sweet girl,” he says.

Harry bites her lip against a grin she thinks will split her face right in two.

"I'm not that sweet," Harry says, dimpling.

Nick leans down and kisses her pulse point, the place on her neck where she dabs rose oil every morning. Harry gasps when he uses his tongue; her neck is so sensitive, and sometimes it feels like he can light up the nerves in her whole body with a single touch.

"Plenty sweet," Nick declares. She knows he isn't just talking about how she tastes.

Harry dips beneath the collar of Nick's jumper, running her hands over his shoulders. She wants to be fluent in the planes of his body, able to map the constellations of freckles and scars with just her fingertips. She's not quite there yet, but she believes one day she'll know him like Braille. It'll be a new language that only she can speak.

Nick’s on spread hands and knees on top of her, laying kisses on her neck; he tilts it back with one easy hand tangled in her hair. Her throat's unguarded now, breath catching as Nick's hand curls tighter. Harry finds herself open-eyed and frozen when Nick drifts lower with a barely-there touch, tracing with his tongue the graceful line of her throat. The vulnerability fades away as Nick's mouth returns to her face, but the sense of glorious, reckless exposure - it lingers.

Harry's palms slide down from Nick's shoulders, over the woolen jumper till they reach his back and sneak under the hem of his top. Manicured fingers claw at Nick's back, strong enough to leave long loving red marks. Hard enough to make him moan and shiver against her. Nick shifts, more of his weight pressing down on her, and she can feel his hardness against her hip. She’s seized with a sense of sudden urgency; she wants to take care of him. She pulls away, moving her hand down to his waist.

“Do you want me to...?” Harry trails off, waiting for him to say what he wants.

“No,” Nick says. He smiles and shakes his head.

“No?” Harry says. It’s like he’s laughing at a joke that she’s not in on; discomfort flares lightly in her gut. She knows all his jokes. 

Nick tilts up her chin with one finger, looks her in the eye as he speaks. “Tonight’s about you, okay?"

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Yeah, okay." Harry’s voice is flimsy. She _feels_ flimsy, blowing in the breeze like those Paris curtains she so fantasises about.

"After all, I did let you pick the music," Nick says, teasing.

"True love, that." Harry sighs.

“If that doesn’t prove it, I’m out of ideas.”

“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.” Harry laughs and brings Nick back down toward her, face pressed to her neck. He’s laughing, too, shoulders shaking beneath his jumper. After she quiets, he ducks down to bite her, the tender flesh between throat and collarbone. Harry arches up, whimpering. He chases his bites with a gentle kiss, and goes on that way for a bit, keeping her guessing about what’s next. Harry loves the anxious anticipation that comes along with giving Nick control; it feels like the adrenaline thrill of danger, but without any of the risk.

With the position Nick’s in, the pressure of his chest against hers brings more awareness to her breasts; it’s a prickly feeling she wants to squirm away from. The fabric of her bra feels like it's digging into her skin, keeping her in a costume she’s ready to take off. Most days, padded bras help because they remind her of the journey she’s on, the way she may someday look. Her destination. Bras have the added perk of making her feel like her breasts are like those of her mates’, all of them with universally desirable bodies they enhance with pretty little things they can purchase at any boutique.

Still, tonight… Harry just wants to be, well, Harry. She wants to be herself, the person she is at this very moment. Better or worse.

“Hold on,” Harry says. She pulls away so she can unclasp her bra. She folds it and puts it next to her. As she sits back, she feels better. Shoulders squared, defiant. "There."

“You look, well. You look wonderful," Nick says. The words come out a bit stilted. Nick's still not used to her feminine body—or any feminine body, really.

All of Nick's messy fumblings with other women, mostly in uni, had never led to anything much except confusion. Harry'd led to confusion too, she'll admit, especially since they'd met years back and under vastly different circumstances. But things have been turning out alright for them, navigating with caution, a sense of humor, and many boxes of tissues. Nick's slowly learning to embrace a lack of labels after feeling a singular attraction for so long. He loves who he loves and that's all there is to it.

Nick pauses at Harry’s chest; the question is voiced first with his gaze and then with his words. “Can I touch?” He looks at her with eyes clear, not cloudy with lust. “D’you mind?”

Harry treats her breasts like newborn babies, whispering to them about her day whenever she’s alone. She gives them all the attention they mewl for, rubbing them to remind herself that they’re still there, and massaging them to make them more prominent. She often feels protective of them. They’re hers, something she’s created – something that feels too delicate and too intimate to share.

“They’re feeling shy,” Harry admits. “But if you want, you can say hello.”

Nick doesn’t say anything, just presses a kiss to her collarbone and then draws back. Her breasts are too small for her broad torso, and they look even smaller next to Nick's huge hands. Still, Nick brushes over them again and again like they're precious, like they're perfect.

"It's nice, um – it's nice to see you again," Nick says, speaking directly to Harry's chest. Harry feels her lips curve up into a grin. "Can I give you a kiss?" Nick glances at her, an upward glance of submission that makes her legs go weak. She feels like a goddess. As she nods, she's on a cloud.

Harry's heart picks up as Nick ducks his head to press his lips to the peak of her breast. The touch sends a little ripple of pleasure-warmth fluttering through her. It's affirming to know that this is how he sees her. He sees all the different versions of her – has seen, does see – and loves them all the same, even the ones he's not met yet. It makes Harry beam, lit up from inside.

"Was that okay?" Nick asks, drawing back to look at her.

"Yeah, good," Harry says, grinning.

Nick leans down to kiss her on the mouth, pressing his body flush against hers. He slides his hand down over her thigh and squeezes, her muscles lean and strong. Harry ruts against him, more an involuntary response to the touch than a search for friction; her skirt rides up, an accordion around her hips.

"Bit cheeky, are we," Nick says. He keeps his hand on Harry's thigh, scratching her leg through her tights with just enough pressure to make her sigh, pleased. Harry brings her leg up, winding it around and pressing her foot against Nick's shin, trying to bring him even closer.

“Will you –” Harry says. She's flushed, gasping. “Your hands –”

“You want me to?” Nick looks up, bright-eyed and breathless. “I can.”

“My two favourite words,” Harry says, smiling. “Yes. Please.”

“Those are _my_ favourite words,” Nick says, laughing in her ear and giving her earlobe a little bite. He teases her with licks on the back of her ear that make her shiver. "C’mon, then, get your kit off.” 

Harry grins and reaches out to tug at Nick’s jumper. She pulls it over his head, and Nick tosses his House of Holland clothes on the floor.

“I’m sure Henry would just _love_ that,” Harry says.

“Well, Henry’s not here, now is he.” Nick raises his eyebrows.

“I sure hope not. God.”

“Not like that one time, anyway.”

“Stop,” Harry says, giggling. “That was an accident.”

“That’s not how he tells it.”

Harry puts her hand on the back of Nick’s neck. "I don’t want to think about Henry."

“If you’re sure,” Nick says, grinning. He shifts to sit down beside her, leaning on his arm and laying his hand over her stomach.

Harry's soft in the middle, like Nick is; she loves her curves, and loves his enough for the both of them. It’s a good thing, too, because she’s caught him frowning at himself in the mirror too many times for her liking. But it’s nothing a good snog in the right places can’t fix.

When Nick traces the laurels fanning out above her hips, the shiver is so intense that she’s seized with the urge to push his hand away. She sticks out her chest and keeps her body as still as she can, despite the way his touch, _right there,_ makes her want to sink, quivering and pleased, into a heap at the foot of the bed.

“Nick,” she says, half a whine and half a sigh. The feeling is so _much. S_ he's almost afraid to give herself away to it, or let her guard down completely.

"Okay, okay," Nick says. "Your turn."

Harry goes for her zipper, unbuttoning her cord skirt and looping her thumbs around the waistband of her tights. She lifts her bum to push her skirt down, and Nick gets the rest for her, sliding her skirt and tights off. They’re tossed right onto the floor, next to Nick’s crumpled jumper.

“Kept my pants on, babe. Such a gentleman,” Harry says.

“You know me,” Nick says with a self-effacing shrug.

“I do,’ Harry says, smiling. “I do,” she repeats, feeling her smile gently fade as she looks at him. Beautiful, he really is.

“Pass me the lube, yeah?” Nick’s shirtless and up on his knees, holding out his hands. Harry glances down, remembering.

Lust hits Harry at odd times these days. She’ll be riding the tube with Nick, absently regarding his hands folded in his lap, and then she’ll flash to those fingers pressing against her delicate places. Desire will hurtle through her, the immediacy of it startling to them both.

Gradually, though, Harry's come to not mind her strange, confused libido – and even appreciate it, despite how quick her desire can come and go. She’s grateful just to _want_ intimacy. After the months of dysphoria before her therapy, and the mood swings early on, it’s such a relief to finally want intimacy, and so gratifying to be able to accept it. She’s able to want Nick in a pure way, her need for him unsullied by her shame.

Harry fumbles in the bedside drawer for the warming lube, anticipating the way it’ll stoke and match the smolder in her belly. She doesn’t know if she’ll have the patience to work up to an orgasm tonight, but she does know one thing: she wants to be touched.

Harry passes the bottle to Nick. He grabs one of the pillows from behind her just as she’s poised to lay back against them.

“Pants off?” Harry asks.

“Only if you want,” Nick says, giving her space.

Harry feels a spike of self-awareness as she takes her pants off and settles back down with the pillow underneath her bum. She’s grateful Nick’s gaze is downcast, concentrating on slicking up his fingers. Silly after all this time, but lately she’s started to get shy about being naked.

With each passing day, Harry’s body has begun to feel more like home. Every change has brought her closer to the inner peace she’d once thought was untouchable. She knows Nick’s seen firsthand the new serenity within her, yet her hands still shake whenever he watches her undress. She wonders if the things he used to love most about her body still take up the same space in his head, or if that energy has flowed into fresh channels. She wonders if his lust has shifted into a new landscape, the same way her body has.

Harry's arms had been strong, once, biceps bold and bulging from sleeves, audacious. The firmness of her body was something Nick had always admired; he’d enjoyed watching the work it took to keep it that way. Living vicariously, he’d say, winking as he sat watching her bench-press. Now, her muscles have melted back into the expanse of her body, replaced by womanly curves and pudge that dips over the waistband of her jeans. Her softened cock doesn’t stand bold or arrogant anymore, and her bollocks have shriveled like small wilted grapes between her thighs.

Nick’s handled every change with grace, but still Harry can’t help wondering if there are things he sometimes misses.

There’s a quiet whispering touch against one of Harry’s calves, and she startles. Nick’s kissing up her leg, ankle to knee, eyes closed in nothing less than reverence. The hairs on the back of her neck rise as she watches him. She can feel the touch on her body, yes, but somewhere else, too – somewhere much deeper than her skin. Nick’s seeing her at her most vulnerable, even though he isn’t looking at her at all. It’s magical, she thinks. Someone who can touch her soul without even looking at her.

But it’s always been like that, hasn’t it? Nick’s been the one to understand even when he doesn’t, the one who kept on trying, kept on giving. Even when he’d offered up everything he had, Nick managed to find more – more patience, more compassion, more humour. Nick’s been the shelter in her storm.

A choked sob bursts from Harry, sudden like the first roll of thunder on a dark day.

Nick looks up, his brows knitted in concern. “You okay?” he asks, sitting up.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, with a laugh that turns into another cry she isn’t expecting. “M’ _fine_.” She knows it’s hard to believe her with tears dripping down her face.

Nick makes his way back over, taking gentle grounding hold of her shoulders and trying to meet her eyes.

“I’m really fine,” Harry says, but she can’t stop crying, and a horrifying snuffling comes through as she tries to catch her breath.

“What is it, Harry? What’s wrong?” Nick sounds so compassionate and so concerned that Harry sobers.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” Harry says, pressing the heels of her hands against her cheeks. “I’m serious, I’m just – I’m happy.” Her voice cracks on the last word, stuttering on the one thing she wants him to know.

Nick’s still looking at her, no doubt confused. “You don’t look happy,” he says slowly, weighing the words.

Harry laughs, shaky, and takes in a breath that feels more like a hiccup. She breathes in deep until she feels steady, then puts her hands on the back of Nick’s neck. Easily, Nick lets himself be brought down and laid beside her. She presses her face against his chest and inhales. He’s sweaty, smelling like stale smoke and the dirty lights of the nightclub. Palms pressed to the narrow of his back, her fingers meet and touch in the middle. The hair on his chest is soft on her cheek, and it reminds her of the masculinity she had grown strong enough to reject.

And yet: Nick had stayed. Through of it, Nick stayed.

Harry brings her face up next to Nick’s, facing him sideways on the pillow they’re sharing, and slowly she meets him in the middle, their faces tilted so they can kiss with open mouths. It’s one endless kiss, warmth spreading through her as Nick tilts her chin up delicately.

When Nick brushes her cheek with the back of his hand, Harry feels another swell of emotion within her. Her jawline has become less defined, her chin rounder. Her face has softened in a way that feels new and unfamiliar, yet somehow just right. She's becoming the person she always knew she could be.

Harry's more sensitive to the scratch of Nick’s stubble and the pads of his fingers: stroking, caressing, learning. They’ll lay together, clothed but bare, and he’ll touch her face for a long while. Sometimes all the gazing and all the touching is too much, and Harry laughs to break their moment, and they’ll go off and find something else to do.

But sometimes Harry lets him, and when she does, when he looks at her and she looks back at him and they see each other, really see each other, blinking slowly in time as his fingers map and memorise the changes… She never feels more connected to him as she does in those moments.

“So you’re really okay?” Nick asks, pulling away. There’s still that caution in his voice, as if he’s waiting for the punchline, but there’s a quirk to the side of his mouth that lets her know he understands. Some way, somehow, he does.

“I really am," Harry says. "Just love you, that’s all.”

Nick kisses her temple and settles down against her. He lays his head beneath her chin, on her breastbone, careful not to put undue pressure on her. They lay there for a while without speaking. Harry’s face is damp from tears, but her heart is full.

Harry runs her fingers over the top of Nick’s back, tracing figure-eights on pristine smooth skin. She loves every bit of him, it's true, knobby knees and flushed cheeks and spindly fingers. Worn-out grin coming back from the radio show, arms wrapped bandage-tight around her. He keeps her safe through the darkest moments of night, keeps her company in the brightest moments of morning.

Harry could fall asleep like this, she thinks, glow of contentment warming her all over. But Harry’s not ready yet. She's not ready to surrender to sleep. Feeling brave-sturdy-strong, she wants to keep going.

Nick’s head seems heavier against her, his breathing steady. Calm.

“Nick?” Harry whispers. If he's asleep, she can brush it off and pretend he's not heard her.

“Yeah?” Nick lifts his head immediately, and she knows he couldn’t have been asleep. She has to ask him for this, though. She’s got to _._

“I think – I, I want your hands. Like we were going to do, but just – inside me this time."

Nick sits up and looks at her full-on. “Like we — Like before?” _Like we used to._

“Yeah, if — if you want to.” Harry bites her lip and shrugs, so it won’t hurt if he says no.

Nick’s face softens. “I would love that. I _do_ love that.”

Relief floods through Harry. Nick leans down and kisses her softly, just once.

"As long as you’re sure,” Nick says. Harry nods, slow and then faster, holding his gaze. She can feel the echo of him still on her lips. “Okay.”

Nick starts to sit up. He stops midway. “If you want to stop, you need to tell me, okay?” he says. “Promise me you’ll say."

“I will," Harry says.

Nick sits up fully to get the lube, then lays back beside her. He's on his side, like she is, and the immediacy of the face-to-face intimacy is startling, but she likes it.

"Bring your leg up, yeah?" Nick asks.

Harry brings her knee to her chest, tucking her hand in the crook of her leg to keep it there. She stretches her other leg out, parallel with Nick's, and spreads her thighs for access.

"This feels suspiciously like yoga," Harry says.

"Never done yoga," Nick says, laughing.

"Me either."

"You want me to do tree pose, or, like, downward dog in solidarity?"

"Maybe later," Harry says, curling her free hand around Nick's forearm as a hint.

Nick slips his hand between her legs, and there's nothing but love on his face. Yet Harry feels her chest tighten. Her belly churning. She closes her eyes.

God, she used to be able to come like this, Nick's fingers curled inside her, teeth and tongue on her nipples. It really was amazing.

It's different, now. Better. She doesn't have a lot of orgasms, but when she does, her body bursts into fireworks she never wants to stop. It's an event almost holy; she wants to kiss her fingertips and kneel at the altar of the orgasm gods whenever they bless her with a visit. It's her female energy, she thinks. It's easier to access now. Her pleasure is deeper. Intimacy rains down on her, abundant.

Harry cries sometimes, when she comes. But she's not sad, anymore.

"How's that?" Nick asks, rubbing circles over her entrance.

Harry lets out the breath she's been holding and focuses on the feeling. A light heat in the middle of her is unfolding, almost. Soft ripples, her body a pond. His fingers slide over her with the ease of experience and a dollop of lube.

"That's good," Harry says after a moment.

"Good," Nick says, reaching out to stroke her hair with his free hand. "I like it, too.”

Circling back and forth, the feeling makes her hum, the pressure increasing as the moments pass. Her eyes go heavy-lidded at the gentle lulling of Nick's cautious fingers.

"You want to start out with one?" Nick says. Harry nods. Nick's still looking at her expectantly; he needs to _hear_ it, she realises.

"Yes," Harry says. She closes her eyes and takes deep breaths, feeling her chest's steady rise and fall.

Nick eases her open like the shell of an egg: the sudden crack, the pressure, the give, and her legs suddenly liquid. Harry lets out a whimper. She's missed this closeness, their bodies connecting in a way both carnal and pure. Nothing between them.

"You're cringing," Nick says gently, tilting his head.

"Am I?" Harry says. "Just getting used to it, I think. Feels good, though, don't stop."

It doesn't feel _good_ as much as it feels novel and new; she'd forgotten the precise sensation. It's coming back to her now, the face of a long-lost friend. Harry clenches around him, like she's trying to get as close as possible. She lets out a deep breath that shakes on the exhale.

"More, please. All the way," Harry says. She brings her leg higher, as if that'll help. Her body spreads out for him like an offering, open palms, open heart. His own palm is pressed against her for leverage, cupping her bollocks neatly. Harry likes that; she can all but forget about them that way. There's a bit more pressure, knuckle by knuckle until he's gotten a finger inside her. "Keep it there, would you?"

With the hand that was holding her leg up, Harry reaches down and touches the place they're connected. It's always a wonder to her, the body's way of accommodating. A bit beautiful, if she thinks about it.

"Am I lovely?" Harry asks, voice distant, her mind all fuzzy with happiness.

"The loveliest girl in the whole world," Nick says.

"Mm," Harry says, peace smoothing over her face.

"What about me?" Nick asks, playful. A glutton for praise, him.

"Eh, you're alright," Harry says, with a teasing wrinkle of her nose; Nick has an appalled look on his face anyway.

" _Kidding_. You're lovely, too, for a boy. Happy?"

"Yes," Nick says. Huffs, really. "You?"

"Dead chuffed at the moment, if I'm honest," Harry says. "You're a proper Casanova."

“Am I?” Nick says. He's smirking, pleased.

“Don't get a big head about it. I'm not afraid to take it back," Harry says.

“Laugh's on you, you can't take it back," Nick says.

“Sometimes you're cuter when you don't talk, Nick,” Harry says, shifting forward and meeting his mouth with hers. It's an effective way to quiet him. Foolproof, really.

Harry fancies having their bodies connecting in two spots. In some shamelessly romantic way, she’s always liked observing the ways two people try to become one, blurring the boundaries from one to the other. Maybe it's why she has all those Tantra books; perhaps one day they’ll get to use them. One day when all of her changes have slowed down and they can start unpacking her baggage for good and relaxing in a permanent home. She hopes so.

They kiss for a moment until Harry starts rocking gently against Nick's hand, still searching for more. The pressure from the angle and the depth does feel nice; there's nothing like being touched in a place so delicate. But she’s chasing a feeling she can’t get from just one.

"Will you do two?" Harry asks. "Crooked, but not on my spot."

"Too intense?" Nick asks.

"Definitely. Not quite in the mood to be a quivering mess," Harry says, shrugging. "Fun as it is."

"That's like, peak you, though. I love that," Nick says.

"I do, too. Maybe another night."

"No worries," Nick says, slipping his finger out and adding more lube. He rubs her with his fingers before he enters. It's less intense and more dynamic than the slight simple fullness of having a digit stilled inside. There's a lovely bit of give as her body acclimates to the two knuckles of Nick's fingers. "Keep them there or move them?"

"Move them back and forth, just a bit," Harry says.

Harry touches herself while Nick touches her, running calloused fingertips over the stretch marks on her hips and her belly. She can't feel the rises beneath her fingers, but she knows they're there, jagged like clumsy lipstick lines on her skin, reminding her of her journey. Nature's way of reminding her; giving her something she can keep. She shivers with pleasure under her own touch, those goosebumps replaced with the warmth and fullness of fingers and her own soft moans. Nick's not on her spot, just as she'd asked, but it's like he's massaging her sore places, healing her from the inside out.

Arousal spikes through her, but she's not particularly inclined to do anything about it. She's content to lay back and let it run its course, tiny electric waves emanating from where their bodies are connected.

"I'd do this all night," Harry murmurs. "Feels so nice."

"Two hands, a few hours each, I think I could do it. Could be good," Nick says.

Harry laughs. She's distant, though. Floaty. Her limbs grow heavy as the moments pass, grounding her as her mind drifts off. She feels so relaxed, so safe, like she's laying out on a sun-warmed rock, letting her hair be rustled by the breeze, her body held by the heat of the day.

Time flows, one moment into the next. When they move, it's languid, fluid, no rush. Harry hums and sometimes she moans softly, but mostly she just lays back and soaks up the touch in silence, her pleasure clear by the bliss on her face and the hitches in her breath.

When she's ready, Harry lets out a deep exhale, her whole body relaxing with the force of it. "I think I'm good, babe. Satisfied."

Nick slows. He asks, “Yeah?"

"Yeah, I think so. I want to lay down and have a cuddle." Harry yawns. "Maybe sleep."

Nick gently slides his fingers out.

"There's a wet wipe in the drawer," Harry says. "I'll get you some clothes."

"You're perfect," Nick mumbles, yawning a bit himself.

Harry gets up. She's unsteady on her feet, gone boneless from the sustained pleasure. She smiles absently, stumbling about the room and bending down to reach into the pile of already-worn clothes. The oversized checkered shirt she wears to bed is soft and cosy, and she slips some plain panties on underneath.

All cleaned off, Nick gets up, creaking across the wood floor. Harry hands Nick a clean t-shirt and some shorts, and then blows out the candles while he remembers the lamps.

They climb into bed and start settling down. Harry pulls the duvet and the blanket over them.

"Too hot," Nick says, right on schedule.

"You'll cope," Harry says. She pats his stomach and snuggles in close.

Nick grumbles, but he puts his arms around her anyway, holding her tightly.

"I've never seen that film," Harry mumbles. "Casanova."

" _Casablanca_ , you mean?"

"Maybe. The real old one you probably watched in uni."

"Saw part of it on a plane once. Dunno, I fell asleep."

"Must have been good, then."

"Those five minutes changed my life, though. I cried."

"And you were so tired from crying that you fell asleep."

"That's exactly how it happened. How'd you guess?" Nick shakes Harry's shoulder with enthusiasm. Harry laughs.

A quiet calm settles around them; there’s nothing she can hear but the hum of the radiator and, through the floorboards, the muffled sounds of last call. She’s grateful to be where she is, not stumbling home with newfound friends or puking in a club toilet or getting off with someone she won’t remember come morning. No, she’s past that, and she’s glad to be. Her life now – it’s more than she could have ever imagined.

"Don’t know where I’d be without you,” Harry says, soft and earnest. “I truly don’t.”

“Oh, you’d be just fine,” Nick mumbles.

Harry considers this, the state of her estrogen-altered body coming first to her mind. Her breasts, her biggest source of pride. Sometimes she just rubs her smooth arms and legs and face to remind herself that it's all still there, and if it's all still there, anything is possible. She is capable of anything. She is capable of _everything_.

Maybe Nick's right.

“Yeah, but I’m better with you," Harry says. "Everything is. Brighter and more exciting.”

"Then stick with me, yeah?" Nick says, as if it's simple, just like his name or the time.

"I think I can manage that," Harry says, tucking her face against the soft part of his shoulder. She sighs, content.

Maybe home is something she can touch: the flat that's all but falling apart, the body she's learning to love, or the person she knows she already does.

Maybe home is something she can sense: the feeling of calm settled warmth she gets from being in a place like this, in a bed like this, held by the only one that matters.

Maybe home is both. Maybe home is neither.

Harry knows this: there's a well deep inside her, a reservoir of strength that gives her the courage to shout louder than every fear. She can be her own home, if she needs to. She can zip her own dresses, fix her own tea. Take picnics alone, hold herself during a big cry.

But for now, she's warm and happy and in the only place she wants to be. She can't imagine anything better.

 

**Author's Note:**

> for those of you on tumblr, i've got [a post up on my blog](http://misowithlizo.tumblr.com/post/143510038306#notes) about it. reblogs & recs are always appreciated! <3
> 
> [fuck in france](http://8tracks.com/kenyamay/fuck-in-france) is a real thing: it’s an 8 tracks playlist i listened to a lot whilst writing this. i also listened to a lot of laura stevenson, lady lamb the beekeeper, and sharon van etten; their raw, intimate songs were hugely influential in getting me in a good headspace to write. lastly, night changes (by one direction, of course) felt like a song tailor-made for the story i wanted to tell. so, thanks, 1D. never change.


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